Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Do you know who she talked to there?”

  “I don’t. I’ve never believed in this sort of thing. My wife, a lot of the people I know do, but I never . . .”

  Deafening sirens announced the arrival of the paramedics, and we all stood back to give them room to work. They did a quick assessment of Raul’s condition, fitted him with a neck brace, and transferred him onto a stretcher.

  As we watched them load him into the ambulance, Graham came to stand beside me.

  “I have to go with him, see what the doctors say,” I said. “Would you do me a huge favor and be my foreman? Settle everyone down, have them wrap up early for the day, then lock up.”

  “Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

  I handed him an extra set of keys to the front door.

  “And would you take Dog with you? I don’t know how long I’ll be at the hospital.”

  “Sure. Call me later and let me know what the doctors say. And Mel—at some point we have to talk about what happened in the attic.”

  “I know. Do me another favor? Stay clear of there for a while?”

  Graham nodded and I ran out to chase an ambulance.

  As I followed the paramedics to the hospital, I admitted to myself that I was out of my league. My first ghost had been annoying but ultimately benign. These ghosts were dangerous.

  As I sat in the ER’s waiting room to hear what the doctors would say, I made phone calls until Raul’s wife came to be with him. I told her what had happened, and assured her that all Raul’s needs would be covered by our health insurance, and workers’ comp, if necessary. At the very least, they wouldn’t have to worry about the financial ramifications of a job site accident. Before we were finished talking, Raul’s grown daughter arrived with her husband and children, and then Raul’s brother joined them.

  I was leaving him in good hands. My time would be better spent figuring out how to banish these phantoms.

  Looked like I was going on a ghost-hunting tour tonight. I wouldn’t have minded having someone strong and capable to accompany me, but if I asked Graham, he might bring Elena. I was not in the frame of mind to deal with a ghost hunter and Elena at the same time. So I called someone not nearly so strong, nor as capable, but a far sight more open-minded: Matt.

  “Want to go with me on a ghost tour tonight?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “Don’t all the girls ask you to go ghost hunting?”

  “Only if it’s a euphemism.”

  “Not in this case.”

  “Didn’t think so. I’m not really up for a ghost hunt, Mel. Call me crazy.”

  “It’s with your buddy Olivier Galopin. You said you knew him from the reality TV business, remember? Please?”

  Matt sighed. “On one condition: If I go, you have to tell me about you and Graham.”

  “Deal. The whole sorry saga,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers. No way would I tell Matt about our latest adventure in the attic. I could barely bring myself to think about what it might mean. The memory of the brief kiss, before we were interrupted, made my heart race. But . . . it had been Graham, but he was acting completely out of character. “Fair warning, though: There’s not much to it.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Where and when?”

  “Meet me at the Eastlake Hotel a little before seven,” I said. “On the corner of Steiner and Pine. Oh, and don’t bring the cameras,” I hastened to add.

  “Not even my digital?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. But lose the camera crew.”

  When I arrived, Matt was waiting outside the hotel, wearing a big puffy parka and boots, shifting from one foot to the other, as if fending off a blizzard. The temperature was in the low fifties, which would not strike many as particularly frigid, but we Bay Area folks are weather wimps. If the thermometer drops below the midsixties, we freeze; when it rises above the low eighties, we wilt; and when it has the nerve to rain, we bemoan our fate.

  “It’s cold out here,” I said. “Why didn’t you wait for me inside?”

  “I’m scared to go in alone.”

  “It’s a hotel, Matt, full of people. Not an abandoned factory.”

  “Ghosts give me the creeps,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “I’m highly suggestible.”

  “You are aware this is a ghost tour, right?”

  “I’m also highly bribable.”

  “Some badass rock-n-roller you are,” I said with a smile, pushing the door open and leading the way in.

  “Yes, well . . . don’t believe everything you read on the Internet.”

  I walked around, studying the faded grandeur of the Eastlake Hotel’s antique-filled, red velvet–curtained lobby. As a sumptuously decorated Victorian building, it was a wonderful inspiration for the Cheshire House renovation. Every corner was filled with ornate carved chairs, fringed lampshades, and gilded frames. Enclosed bookshelves were nestled on either side of the fireplace, and brocade settees flanked a grand piano. An impressive staircase led upstairs to guest rooms and, I presumed, more antiques.

  Matt picked up a pamphlet on the building’s history from the marble-topped reception desk and read aloud.

  “It says here that at one time this place was Miss Mary Lake’s School for Young Ladies. Some guests in the hotel claim to sense the ghost of Miss Mary, saying she covers them up with blankets at night.”

  I was surprised that a hotel would embrace its reputation for being haunted, but then Brittany Humm would remind me that there’s a premium on haunted real estate, at least among some people.

  “See, Matt, nothing’s going to hurt you,” I said. “Miss Mary just wants you to be warm and comfy.”

  Matt gripped my arm. Eyes wide, he nodded toward a shadowy nook where a woman sat on a fringed bench. Her hair was short and bobbed, and she was dressed in a cloche hat and coat from the 1920s.

  “It’s a ghost,” Matt breathed, ducking his head as though afraid the spirit would read his lips. “I can’t believe it; it’s sitting right here. Am I the only one who can see it? I’m looking at . . . a ghost!”

  As I watched, a young man walked up to the woman and handed her a steaming teacup. They exchanged pleasantries.

  “Seems your ghost is on a date. No wonder it’s hard to find an eligible bachelor in this town.” But I breathed a quick sigh of relief. For a moment there, Matt had me going. “She’s just wearing an old-fashioned hat, is all.”

  “Oh. Well, she could have been a ghost.”

  “I need a drink,” I said.

  “Me, too. Too bad I don’t drink anymore.”

  “It’s a moot point anyway, since there’s no bar. And I forgot to slip my flask into my garter before leaving home.”

  “You wear garters?”

  “No. But then, I’m not a ghost.” I poured two cups of tea from the urn by the fireplace.

  “With your outfits I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Matt, helping himself to an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie from a delft platter. He pointed toward an old-fashioned doll propped in the corner. She wore a bonnet and crinolines, and stood about three feet tall, her green glass eyes staring into space. “Now that’s scary.”

  “Gotta agree with you there,” I said.

  The woman behind the reception desk announced that everyone waiting for the ghost tour should congregate in the dining room. We funneled in and sat at round tables in the otherwise empty room. Most in attendance appeared to be out-of-town tourists. There was a group of giggling college-age women, two middle-aged couples, a father with his teenaged son, and a young couple from Australia, with the cool affects and clothes of world travelers, talking about the spirits they had seen in Thailand and Quebec.

  The lights went out, plunging us into darkness. When they returned a few seconds later, our host stood in front of us dressed in a vintage green velvet coat over a vest and breeches. Black boots and an old-fashioned lantern completed the costume. He was more interesting-looking than handsome, with blue-green eyes and dark hair buzzed cl
ose to the skull.

  “Welcome to the world-famous San Francisco Ghost Walk!”

  Olivier had a great voice, deep and resonant, and he spoke with a lovely French accent. Perfect for storytelling. But the community-theater aspect of the evening was already embarrassing me. I’m not what you’d call big on public scenes.

  After spinning a few tales of ghostly goings-on in the neighborhood, our tour guide went over a few logistical issues, then recapped the story of Miss Mary Lake’s supposed haunting of Eastlake Hotel. Olivier did his best to get us in the mood, warning us that some people do see spirits when they’re on the tour, though “most likely they won’t appear, since they prefer to come to people who are alone.”

  “Very convenient,” I whispered to Matt.

  “Be nice,” Matt whispered in return. “For all you know he’ll be the next Mr. Mel Turner.”

  Before beginning our outdoor ghost walk, Olivier led the way up the three flights of stairs to the room of the former headmistress, Miss Mary Lake. Matt and I caught up with him by the second story.

  “Olivier, remember me? Matt Addax, from the TV filming?”

  “Of course! I am so happy to see you here!” said Olivier. “But I thought you were afraid of ghosts?”

  “I brought a very brave friend along. She swears she’ll protect me. Mel Turner, this is Olivier Galopin.”

  “So nice to meet you—Mel? Unusual name.”

  “It’s a nickname,” I said before Matt could tell him my full name was Melanie. I’ve never felt like a Melanie.

  “It is a pleasure. And now we have arrived at Miss Mary Lake’s bedroom.” Olivier turned and addressed the group. “Please remember that Miss Mary is a friendly ghost. Let us all gather within and remain very still, and if you are sensitive, perhaps you will feel vibrations from beyond, or a cold spot.”

  We all shuffled into the small but gracious room, beautifully furnished in antiques of the era.

  “I definitely feel something,” said the Australian woman.

  “Do you consider yourself sensitive?” Olivier asked.

  “Oh yes.” She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Are we allowed to take photos?” asked the man with her. “I reckon they’d show orbs.”

  “Of course,” said Olivier. “Feel free. And if they do show orbs, which are a sign of spirits present, please e-mail them to me so we can put them up on the Web site.”

  Most in the group seemed so earnest and . . . gullible . . . that I found it hard not to roll my eyes. Since my experience at Matt’s house six months ago, I had come to believe in the existence of spirits from a different dimension. But this tour felt like nothing more than making money off the titillation provided by the idea of a ghostly presence. I supposed there were worse ways to make money, but it felt unseemly, somehow.

  Things improved as we left the hotel and walked the neighborhood. Olivier spun a fascinating tale, and clearly knew a lot about San Francisco history. We heard about scandals and tragedies, and numerous possible spirits and hauntings. Finally we paused outside two houses connected by a breezeway that belonged to sisters who grew to hate each other. Olivier told us a lunatic cousin had been kept in the attic but broke out one day and killed a woman visiting in the front parlor. The houses operated as a hotel for a while, but the guests complained of horrifying apparitions.

  “Now, though, we must only look at it from this side of the street, for the current owner does not like the fact that he is a stop on the famous Ghost Walk tour.”

  The crowd tut-tutted their disappointment, but I sympathized with the homeowner. I could imagine spending millions on a house only to have the local ghost groupies hang out in front, oohing and aahing and talking about lunatic murderers and lingering spirits.

  “I found this key in an antique store, and the amazing thing is that it once belonged to this very house. Now, if you hold it in your flat palm, it will sometimes move toward the house.”

  The group gathered in a circle around Olivier, watching intently, hoping to see the key turning in his palm.

  “How does he know the key belonged to this building?” I whispered to Matt. “It’s an old skeleton key. I have a dozen of them at home, and a few in my satchel.”

  “Because he’s psychic?” suggested Matt.

  “And why would a key point to a building, anyway?”

  “Because he’s pushing it?”

  I smiled.

  “It’s a nice night for a walk, in any case,” said Matt, lifting his face to the stars. “Except that it’s flipping freezing out here.”

  Several stops later we circled back to the Eastlake Hotel. Matt and I hung around until the crowd dispersed.

  Olivier met my eyes, and gave me a small, ironic smile.

  “I take it you’re not a believer?” he said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You rolled your eyes with every story I told.”

  I blushed. “I’m sorry; that was rude. I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

  He gave a very Gallic shrug. “Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t denigrate me. Comes with the territory.”

  “I wouldn’t say I was denigrating you.”

  “What would you call it then?”

  “Sincere skepticism.”

  He laughed. It sounded genuine, and the twinkle in his blue-green eyes was hard to dismiss. He wasn’t all that good-looking, but there was something about him . . . probably that voice.

  “But I must ask: Why take my tour?”

  “I was hoping to ask you a few questions, in private. The ghost society referred me to you. Could I buy you a drink, or hire you for an hour or something?”

  “Hire me?”

  He looked surprised, and I was afraid he misunderstood.

  “I’d like some advice and I’m happy to pay for it. That’s all I’m saying. . . .”

  “Mel and I want to take you for a drink,” Matt interrupted. “She wants to ask you some questions about ghosts.”

  Olivier nodded, looking intrigued. “I would love to take a glass with you. There’s a nice bar on the corner. Allons-y. Let’s go.”

  The lounge was upscale and mellow, a slight murmur from the patrons vying with a recording of Nat King Cole crooning “The Very Thought of You.”

  We scooted into a plush upholstered booth.

  To my surprise, Olivier ordered not wine but a tumbler of Macallan, a single malt scotch. Suddenly that seemed like a great idea, so I followed suit. Matt ordered a Sprite. Olivier raised his eyebrows at Matt’s order, but said nothing.

  “You know your scotch, I see,” I said to him.

  “It is in my blood. My mother was Scots, my father French. I’m a Channel baby.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a ‘Chunnel’ baby?” I asked.

  Olivier laughed, and looked from me to Matt.

  “Just FYI, Mel and I aren’t together,” Matt said.

  “Matt’s friends call him Mr. Subtle,” I said.

  “Ah?” Olivier said, looking confused.

  “Mel and I are strictly platonic friends. Though I’m half in love with her, like all the men she knows. And you, Olivier, are you married?”

  Olivier smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, he looked me in the eye and held my gaze, the way European men do. It made me nervous. I became fascinated by the amber depths of my scotch.

  “Coincidentally, Mel’s been planning to move to France,” Matt said.

  I felt myself blush. Though I kept insisting that was my plan, the more it became widely known, the more embarrassing it felt that I didn’t either up and leave, or drop the whole thing.

  “Is that right?” Olivier asked. “Which part?”

  “Paris.”

  “A beautiful city, but of course I must love it, because I am French. Though myself, I am from Normandy. What will you do there in Paris, Mel?”

  “Nothing much. No definite plans, I mean. I thought I’d find a cheap apartment somewhere on the Left Bank and just hang out for a while.”


  “I hate to tell you this, but the Left Bank has been ‘discovered.’ I’m not sure you could find anything cheap there these days.”

  I shrugged. “At the rate I’m going, I won’t get there until it’s fallen out of favor again, anyway. Guess I’ll cross that pont when I get to it.”

  “Oh!” said Matt as he scooted out of the booth. “I just remembered something I have to do. So sorry to leave you two alone. Have fun without me.” With an obvious wink to me, he abandoned his Sprite and hurried out the door.

  “I apologize for Matt,” I said to Olivier. “I don’t know how well you know him, but his enthusiasm tends to overwhelm his good sense.”

  Olivier smiled. “He’s charming. So, Mel, what can I help you with?”

  I leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice.

  “When you said earlier that I wasn’t a believer . . . That’s not entirely true.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “No?”

  “I’ve seen things that convinced me there are, in fact, people . . . or beings . . . or whatever, on some different plane maybe, and they visit us. . . .” I stumbled over my words. I didn’t have the ghost lingo down.

  “What have you seen?”

  “Some months ago I saw an apparition of an acquaintance who had recently died. But once I got over the shock of it, he didn’t try to harm me in any way. He was confused . . . and annoying, to tell the truth.”

  Olivier nodded and sipped his scotch. “That’s typical, actually. It is only human to react with fear, but most spirits aren’t out to hurt us.”

  I wasn’t quite so sanguine about the brief, odd glimpses and sensations I’d had from the ghosts in Cheshire House.

  “But now I’m working in a house where there’s something . . . wrong. I can feel it.”

  “What has happened?”

  “It started out with things going wrong as the house undergoes renovations. Handprints appearing on the ceiling; equipment starting of its own accord; things being moved. Rusty old dead bolts that lock and unlock by themselves. And earlier today, I thought I heard whispers behind a wall. And then someone was hurt falling off a ladder, and my toolbox was pushed off a ledge. It barely missed hitting me on the head.”